Willow Tree

Loss

In a field of fresh

cut clover

summer sun,

noon high,

beats down

on open farm spaces,

3 dependent children,

and somewhere

she has lost

her shadow-

and now

she stand still-

with nowhere

to go.

Willow Tree & The Rain Falls

Willow tree where the rain falls,

2 loved pets beneath the roots,

gray sand like dandruff

packs them in close and tight.

Thunder at 3:37 am Thursday night

wonder of my dream mind loves

thunder rain.

It is just a part of me, loose with wind.

I know in the a.m. blending in the

moisture birds will chirp sounds

blasting echoes against the surface

of the sun.

Before the dawn light, small minds like my own

become active gearing thoughts toward work.

Economizing each part of me, loose like the wind.

This is the willow tree where the rain falls.

I am self-employed in my primitive occupation

selling pens, pad of paper, calendars, tee shirts

with your name customized on them.

It is just a part of me loose with the wind.

Life as an author is a daily man grind

to coffee grounds & leftovers.

With the thunder, & lack of sleep,

well deserved.

Casket of Love

This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky,

offers the light by which we love.

This park, grass knee high tickling bare feet,

offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.

Sir Winston Churchill would have

saluted the stately manner this fog

lifts, marching in time across this pond

layering it's ghostly body over us

cuddled by the water's edge,

as if we are burdened by this sealed

casket called love.

Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses

trumpet the last farewell.

A flock of Canadian geese fly overhead

in military V formation.

Yet how lively your lips tremble

against my skin, in a manner no

sane soldier dare deny.

My Own Puppet

Beaten down my

my own puppet

drawn my own strings

I don't know what to do

with myself but hang loose.

I am a swinger of words, & loose conditions.

My fingers hang limp like impotence.

My puppet bows her head with nothing to show.

A curtsey before her king who has somehow

misplaced his private crown of jewels & golden rings.

Such a humble act, a dance of sacrifice

lacking joy, but long term the commitment.

Gallant of her victory in void she

smiles with disgust.

Nothing drips from her face.

I am a swinger of words, & loose conditions.

April, I've Been Fooled Before

I blink, the electricity is off.

The day has brought

night to an end on top of me.

Lamp oil and flashlights save me

from myself.

I walk in darkness.

In this darkness I don't

see my shadow.

When the wind goes still

cold chills down my spine

don't feel anymore.

I walk in darkness like this

but I've been fooled myself before

at Halloween, fears of April thunderstorms.

April thunderstorms have knocked the lighting out of me.

Pulled the electricity out of my sockets, pulled plugs from my condo.

Lying in bed with only this conversation to keep me company.

I feel like an ice tope insulated around in my words,

Looking for images in shadows, quiet corners.

I creep myself alone.

Here I lie on my back in bed, think, try sleep-

with ghosts, witches, spiders, devils,

and all kinds of nasty things.

Nothing brings Christ out of closed wilderness

faster than darkness being alone.

I blink, and electricity is back on.

April, I've been fooled like this before.

Catch On The Fly

Full barrel

up the black asphalt

highway,

53 north

heading to Lake Zurich, IL

Christian talk radio 1660

on the radio dial,

crisp winter day

sunbeams dancing down

on the pavement like midgets.

85 mph in a 65 mph zone,

just to aggravate the police,

black Chevy S10 pick up,

shows what a deviant I am

in dark colors.

Running late for a client appointment.

creating poems on a small hand held recorder

knowing there is not payment for this madness

in this little captured taped area of words.

Headlights down the highway for a legacy

into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.

Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,

I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.

This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.

Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding

like this.

Face On A Bus

Faces On A Bus ©

face on a bus,

passing by,

nameless,

stares out the framed window,

frozen like skeleton bone-

boredom nibbling away at his time.

Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago, IL. after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance writer and poet. He is heavy influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, & William Carlos Williams, Leonard Cohen.